


Alliance of Unequals

by Eloisa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire
Genre: Gen, pairing goggles required
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloisa/pseuds/Eloisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cersei starts to appreciate her most recently acquired guard’s true usefulness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alliance of Unequals

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before ADWD came out, and it doesn't quite fit with a post-Dance headcount of the King's Landing-based cast. I hope that putting on the Jaime/Brienne goggles will make the discrepancies seem less important. :p

Jaime was becoming more and more presumptuous.  The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was a crown servant – one with a voice, yes, but just as much a servant as the between-maid who stoked the fires.  And yet Kevan listened to his counsel!  Cersei nearly frowned at the very thought of it, but controlled herself: frowning brought lines to the face.

Her brother harped back and back to the incident with the Faith, as if it should be anything other than a regrettable memory.  Did he treat Margaery to the same harsh slights?  Of course not.  He was probably afraid of Ser Loras.  The young knight’s recovery from his wounds gained at Dragonstone was a miracle, all could agree: after his trial victory the High Septon had blessed him with the Warrior’s prayer and told the whole of King’s Landing that the Seven had restored him especially to fight for his sister.  His sister!  Once, Cersei had had a Kingsguard brother who fought for her just as bravely.  Now she had a pathetic pale shadow.

She had _needed him_ , and he’d done nothing but amuse himself hanging outlaws in the riverlands while she sat in a cell and waited for a hero who would never come.  And when her other champion, Qyburn’s wonder, had donned a white cloak and saved her in his place, he’d done – what?  Rewarded her cleverness by letting her _keep_ her bodyguard?  He lacked the vision to do more than dismiss it from the Kingsguard and his sight.

 _“A golem can neither swear an oath nor keep it,”_ he’d declared before the small council that had forced itself upon Tommen in Cersei’s absence, before presenting his own choice of replacement for Arys Oakheart to Kevan for ratification – no less than one of the outlaws he’d taken on the road.  How could an outlaw be other than an oathbreaker?  It had been all she could do not to strike the table and remind Jaime of his own oathbreaking.  Aerys.  Herself...

So the golem sat in the cellars, as useless as a one-handed knight.  And her loving twin had surrounded her with guards just as useless.

Old men, all past thirty, with their best fighting days far behind them.  A few green boys of noble names looking for a plum position.  She was the queen!  Her safety ought to have _some_ import!

The woman had been the final insult, or so Cersei had first thought.  She’d almost let Jaime see how angry she was with him, when first he introduced them.  A woman, was it?  She was Jaime’s height and, even now he’d lost his looks, far the uglier.

But Jaime had told the awkward lump to wait outside Cersei’s solar, and as soon as they were alone had informed her – the queen! – that she would be wisest to accept the appointment.  It would have seemed a threat if delivered by anything other than a toothless lion.

She had to admit there were a few advantages.  Brienne was a lord’s daughter, easily of rank enough to sit in a royal solar, though Cersei had had to buy her some gowns, and the girl never spoke without invitation or joined in the merriment unless ordered.  Cersei’d had to be quite pointed with her, upon occasion.

There were still some unpleasant _rumours_ circulating the Red Keep.  Cersei had suffered the insults in feigned equanimity until she eventually had the tongues cut from three maids in a single month.  At least that had put an end to speculation.  But no one could have any reason to invent spurious stories while she had a woman guarding her, in silk one day of the seven and in mail the rest, a lion-hilted sword always beside her.

And then there was _this_.

Pycelle might be next to useless as a councillor but his library, unlike his wits, was undamaged by age.  Brienne opened a heavy medical text bound in red leather and laid it on Cersei’s solar table.  Weak winter sun illuminated the anatomical drawings.

“I could teach you the sword,” the big woman said in as dry a voice as if they were discussing needlework, “but if you were to start to carry one, it would arouse comment.  A jewel-hilted dagger on your belt would go unremarked.  Teaching you that would be a more effective way of defending you.”

Despite herself, Cersei was amused.  “But if I ordered you to teach me the sword?”

“I am your Grace’s to command.”

“The correct answer.  But your logic pleases me.”  She surveyed Brienne.  The guardswoman had advised her to wear a formal gown – for if she could fight in that, she could fight in _anything_ – and had come gowned herself.  Cersei had never seen her don woman’s garb from choice before.

“Who made that?” she asked, gesturing to Brienne’s dress.  It was as blue as finest sapphires, trimmed in white.  _Not one of my gifts._

“A septa of King’s Landing.  Septa Donyse.”

Cersei was grudgingly pleased.  “She’s made me some clothes too: I thought I recognised the handiwork.”  Or some measure of it, at any rate.  The septa had had to put in a lot more work on Brienne’s dress than on anything she’d ever made for the queen.  Cersei had a woman’s figure: hips and waist in the right places, with slender arms she often left bare.  Her gowns never required quite this degree of... _assistance_.

Brienne’s respectful silence drew Cersei’s attention to the anatomy book.  “Yes?” she enquired.

“Your guards are your only armour.  If we are killed, you will most likely have just one chance to defend yourself before being cut down.”  The taller woman tapped on the sketched figure.  “That means you must kill on your first blow.”  She gestured to the picture’s chest, then to her own, where the edge of her left breast should reside instead of Donyse’s helpful padding.  “The heart lies here.  Alternatively you could strike at the throat, or the back of the neck, or the inner thigh if need be – a man will bleed to death very quickly if stabbed there.”

Cersei wrinkled her nose and stared at the anatomy chart.  “Or surely I could slice off his weapon hand.”

“Yes,” she allowed.  “There is then a risk that he will kill you with the _other_ hand.”

“Unlikely,” she sniffed.  “Still, I see your point.”

Brienne had brought two daggers in plain brown leather sheaths: Cersei buckled one to her belt and spent an instructive few minutes paying attention to advice on the best way to stand, with knees slightly bent and her feet planted apart, for balance.  The movement came easy to her: it felt like an odd kind of dance.

Did Brienne ever dance?  What man would ever ask her?  A lord’s _heir_ , and she was an unwed maid of twenty.  Did she know what men were _for_ other than killing?

She drew her dagger as indicated and allowed Brienne to wrap her fingers around it almost delicately at the base of the blade, rather than clutching it as she’d thought.  “The blade is directed just by your fingertips,” Brienne advised.  She drew her own dagger and demonstrated.  The blade swam like solid moonlight under the woman’s command.  Just rubbing her thumb atop the hilt made it move in a neat little circle.  Cersei tried to mirror the motion: the result was so ugly that she hissed in frustration.

“Noble daughters sit at stitchery for an hour a day throughout their childhood,” Brienne said quietly.  “If you sit with a dagger in hand for an hour a day, it will take no more than a month for the point to start landing exactly where you want it to land.”  Cersei had almost ceased to expect quick results from anything.  She nodded.

Thus encouraged, the large woman continued with a quiet sincerity that Cersei had never seen in her before.  “It is not necessary to impale a man in order to kill him.  The blade will become caught if you stab with more than its upper few inches.  To do that, you must control your action – which means controlling the way your arm moves.”

Half an hour later Cersei’s right forearm was aching more than it had ever ached before, from the simple repetitive movement – miming attack after attack, whether with blade in hand at the empty air, or bare-handed to aim at Brienne’s neck or chest, or with both of them holding daggers to make simple parries.  Even her _fingers_ hurt, where they gripped the hilt.

But Brienne showed no sign of pain.  She was as serene in blue silk as she had been when first she crept into the solar.

Crimson envy turned to pity.  Brienne had one talent, more a man’s than a woman’s: Cersei had had loves and lovers and children, and hundreds and thousands of people praised her beauty and grace.  The whole realm sang of her.  When would it ever sing of Brienne of Tarth?

“Does your arm ache?” Brienne enquired softly.

 _Yes, you idiot._   “Pain makes us stronger.”

“That it does, but too much is damaging.  If it is severe, we should stop for now and continue on the morrow.”  Cersei sheathed her dagger at once and shook her arm until it started feeling normal again.  “A warm compress will help,” Brienne advised.  “Should I summon your Grace’s maids?”

“Not yet.  Store these away first.”

Brienne packed daggers and book into the chest beneath the padded red window seat, and Cersei watched her and considered.  Nobody gave their help without expectation of reward, and yet Brienne had never so much as intimated that she desired more than her position.  “This is a most practical way to improve my personal protection,” she murmured.  “Practical, and almost of a man’s devising.”  _She has a man’s freedom.  She dresses in mail and walks among knights, and when she dons a helm and they fail to recognise her, they respect her as a man, as they never respect me._   “Do you ever permit yourself the diversion of being a woman?”  _Lies and scheming and seduction?  Who would seduce you, Beauty?_   “You should marry, and amuse yourself with commanding a husband as you do a blade.”

Brienne’s shoulders stiffened.  For the first time that day, she looked as awkward as she usually did.  “I am not the type of woman men wish to wed, your Grace,” she said quietly.

“And men’s wishes are paramount?”  Cersei laughed.  “To pair a man with a woman is naught but barter, nothing greater than the wrangling of fishwives in a market.”  She smiled.  The thought was thoroughly amusing.  “Name me any knight who takes your fancy – I could _order_ him to wed you.”

Brienne rose slowly, wrinkling her skirts between her hands.  Cersei was tall, like all Lannisters, but seemed tiny beside this female Mountain.  Brienne made her feel every bit a woman.  “The septons say the Seven will only bless a marriage made with the free and peaceable agreement of both parties.”

“No marriage is aught but a battle.  I understand you are more than competent in _that_ field.”  Brienne still seemed unsure.  Cersei could not honestly blame her.  “Had you known Robert, you would understand.  He was my husband and yet had bastards enough for ten men.  It takes maids lost in courtly romances and unmarriageable celibates like Jaime to elevate the married state to its idolised state of foolishness.”

“Your Grace – must have loved him, at least a little,” she ventured.  “For he gave you children.  I know how deeply your Grace loves her children.”

 _Oh, yes.  Children, all three; I had_ three _, once..._ “I did – love him for that, yes.”  _Love?  Jaime, I loved you as the moon loves the sun, but you flung yourself into eclipse.  You betrayed me.  I never forget betrayal._

Betrayal was something Brienne would never consider.  A few knights and lordlings had tried to bribe her already: she’d run straight to Cersei each time, full of hot anger at the insult to her integrity.  She’d not even taken their money first.  Yet another way in which she acted the fool.  The woman saw the evidence of Cersei’s relationship with Jaime every day and still failed to recognise it.

Perhaps Jaime really had done her a service, for once.  Brienne was becoming something more than a guard or a household lady: she looked set to become the only pawn in the game of thrones who was truly Cersei’s, not even answering to another Lannister.  And she was oversized, as clumsy as an eleven-year-old, tongue-tied, slow of wit, lacking in accomplishments and, above all, ugly.

She could never, by any definition of the word, be a rival.

For _anything_.


End file.
